


Hot Thoughts

by stoprobbers



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, I Don't Even Know, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Light Angst, Missing Scene, Post-Season/Series 01, Romance, Season/Series 02, Slow Burn, Tropes, and basically i did, i could spend days playing around with these two to make them kiss, many many missing scenes, that's exactly what i did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 09:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13544511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoprobbers/pseuds/stoprobbers
Summary: He thinks he's invisible. That he can melt into the shadows in the corners of classrooms and hallways, that he can slip by in the cracks in their lives, but he's wrong. She's noticed. She can't seem to stop noticing.





	Hot Thoughts

After all of that he just… disappears.

He thinks he's invisible. That he can melt into the shadows in the corners of classrooms and hallways, that he can slip by in the cracks in their lives, but he's wrong. She's noticed. She can't seem to stop noticing.

She had a type and that type was Steve; the sweetheart bad boy from a movie or maybe a television sitcom. All hair and swagger in a way that seemed both dangerous and safe at the time; sure to drive her parents crazy, sure to turn her from pretty nerd into popular beauty at school. Back before missing children and disappeared best friends and a thing without a face crawling out of _that sweet Byers boy_ 's ceiling.

She noticed it first in the dark room, after she showed him the faceless thing he'd inadvertently caught on camera. The red light smoothed out his features; the deep, dark bags under his eyes disappeared and his cheekbones sharpened and she found herself tracing the angle of his jaw with her eyes as he explained what he was doing. Stared at the dimple in his chin as he apologized for those photos she never gave him permission to take and resisted the urge to run her fingers through his hair as they waited for the photo to develop.

She'd dismissed it later as temporary insanity– madness brought on by the stress and the fear and the sadness, the chemicals in the dark room and teenage hormones. Scolded herself as she lied to Steve about joining softball and then met Jonathan to learn to shoot a gun.

Except it kept happening. She kept noticing things like how strong he was as he pulled her out of the most horrifying place she had ever been, how solid his chest was as he held her and whispered everything was going to be okay. How pale he was even as his clothing stood out, dark against the pastels of her room and her bed, stretched out beside her over the covers and somehow sleeping despite it all.

How tall he actually was, shoulders straightened by terror and a reckless bravery, as he stood before her with steak knives pressed, ready, into the palms of their hands. How big and bright his eyes were as she bandaged his palm. How full his lips were as he said her name and she was weightless, breathless, terrified of the monster and the Upside Down and the heat she felt flashing through every nerve in her body, right before Steve pounded on his front door and threw an insane situation into even greater flux.

And when it's all over and his brother is back and her best friend is gone, gone forever, she still lingered on the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck before she walked out of that hospital room and into a semi-permanent haze of grief.

He's out of school for nearly a month after that. She waits, waits to see what happens when he comes back, when they are back in each other's orbit, even as Steve tries to fill in all the holes in her life. And when he comes back she sees he is a little thinner, a lot paler. The bags under his eyes are deeper, the stoop of his shoulders greater. He's always been a freak but now he's a 'perv' as well, rumors swirling about what he and Nancy did in their week of weirdness, and 'crazy', thanks to the bruising and cuts on Steve's face, and his brother's come back from the dead which doesn't help either. Their eyes meet fleetingly in the hallway and she can see how haunted he is.

He looks like he wants to say something, like he wants to take her hand and pull her into an empty room and bare his soul, or maybe finish what he was going to say to her on his sofa that night, but he never does. She wants him to, but he never does. He just slips deeper into the shadows, hoping no one will see.

But she doesn't stop watching. Now that she's seen him, she can't ever unsee. And she can't stop looking.

+++

He hides under layers, t-shirt and flannel and sweater and coat. Hunches his shoulders to stave off the cold and the curious eyes of his peers. But she's noticing the layers getting fewer and the sweaters getting, well, snugger. Clothing that had room in it before has less in the arms and more at the waist, and wool pools at his hips in a way she finds immensely distracting when she's _supposed_ to be taking notes on physics.

He comes over to pick up Will from her house as January fades and her mother asks him to give her a hand with a couple pieces of furniture her father always puts off rearranging. Jonathan, always accommodating, agrees and she comes down the stairs for her date with Steve just in time to watch him lift an ottoman and carry it back into the living room. His jean coat is stretched tight over his back and she can see a sliver of skin where his movements have hiked up the bottom of his sweater, and all of a sudden she is frozen on the steps, unable to do anything but stare. He sets the ottoman down, straightens, and sees her. She thinks the look on his face is almost like panic.

"Hey," he says softly and she forces her feet to move, to carry her the rest of the way down to her front hall until she's standing in front of him.

"Hey." She wonders if she sounds as breathless as she feels. One side of his mouth quirks up in a grin and she realizes all of a sudden that he has dimples.

"How are you?" she forces herself to ask and she can hear Will's footsteps up from the basement. He used to bound up their stairs – all the boys do, really, loud and clumsy in their youth – but now he walks slower and there is the occasional pause, like he has to stop to catch his breath. Her heart aches for him every time.

Jonathan's grin turns into something more pained and she wants to reach out and comfort him somehow – take his hand, hug him, tell him it's going to be okay with more confidence than any of them have earned. She doesn't move.

"We're okay," he says softly. He looks like he wants to say more but Will opens the basement door and Steve honks outside and Jonathan clamps his lips together like he's been scolded.

 _That's not what I asked_ , she wants to say.

"We should get, like, coffee. Sometime," she says instead, forcing the words out though they feel painfully awkward.

"Coffee?"

Steve honks again. Will is saying goodbye to her mother.

"Or… to catch up. I haven't really seen you since…"

"Yeah," he breathes. His eyes are roaming her face and she wonders what he sees. "Sure."

"Great." She wants to lean in and kiss his cheek again. She's not sure why, but there's also no mistletoe up in the foyer anymore and no Christmas gift just passed to him. "I'll, uh. I'll see you. Soon."

"Yeah," he says again and nods. His jaw is sharper than ever and she smiles and moves past him before her body can get any more ideas.

+++

His fingers tap. Constantly, anywhere. Everywhere.

On the strap of his blue bag, on his desk, on the dark room equipment, against his keys, on the sides of a mug at Benny's Burgers. Under new management, but still Benny's. Always Benny's.

She eyes the lines of his tendons from index finger to wrist, strong and surprisingly slight. The knobby bone sticks out enough to startle her, half-hidden under the cuff of his jacket. There is muscle and gristle just below it, but in the dip of his wrist something delicate lives.

They sit in the back booth in the darkest corner of the diner, a milkshake in front of her and a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. The waitress barely looks at them as she drops a plate of fries in the middle of the table.

If she could see below his skin she could trace the tendon to muscle, muscle to joint, to muscle again, all the way up his arm to his collarbone and neck and jaw. She could follow the line straight to his lips; in fact, she does. She tries not to think about why.

"How are you?" she asks, to give her mouth something to do other than think about what it would be like to kiss him. She's chosen to kiss someone else; someone who cares, who wants, who works to be by her side. Someone she appreciates, someone she cares about too.

She tries not to think about how her lips tingle whenever Jonathan is near by.

"You asked me that last time."

"Well, you didn't answer."

"I told you, we're okay."

This time when the words bubble up unbidden she doesn't bite them back.

"That's not what I asked."

He looks down into his coffee, doesn't speak. She's never been sure if he's blonde or not, but in this light his hair shines an odd pewter-gold and she's transfixed.

"We're okay," he says again, still not looking at her. She sighs. He looks up sharply, something almost angry glittering in his eyes. As if she's offended him by asking about anything other than the whole Byers family.

One of his hands leaves the mug, presses flat against the table and then drums out an asymmetrical rhythm on the laminate.

She slides her hand across to meet his, intertwining just their fingertips together. His face freezes with something like fear, then relaxes. His fingertips curl around hers.

"Me too," she whispers. He squeezes her fingers for just a second before pulling carefully away. Grabs a French fry from the plate and raises it to his lips.

"So how long since you last slept?"

He chomps down on the fry at the same time that she laughs, too loud and too sharp and two booths down their fellow diners turn around in surprise.

"I don't even remember," she breathes and he slides his hand forward again, just barely touching the tips of his fingers to hers. She doesn't try to pull away. "We're going to go crazy."

His index finger carefully presses down on hers, pad on fingernail. She hopes the flash of heat that runs through her doesn't show on her face.

"If you believe the rumors, I'm already crazy."

He did a number on Steve's face, and if Hawkins High cares about one thing, it's Steve Harrington's face. But she doesn't need the rumors; she was there. She remembers. She finds it difficult to rise to Steve's defense.

She snags a fry for herself instead, raises her eyebrows at him as she takes a bite. She can see him watching her mouth.

"Got any tips? You know me; I don't do things half way."

He laughs and flips her hand over, exposing the scar on her palm. She's treated it carefully but it's still an angry reddish-pink, still raised. He drops his gaze to it, runs his thumb over the ridge of hardened skin.

"No," he murmurs. "You certainly don't."

+++

They're going to be friends, she decides. They fought monsters together, cut themselves open together, bled together, _grieved_ together, and she's sure as hell not going back to doing that alone. She won't let him, either.

(She ignores where Steve is supposed to fit into all of this. She's not sure yet. And she doesn’t have the energy to figure it out. Right now he belongs next to her locker, pulling up to her cul-de-sac curb, taking her to the movies, occasionally tapping on her bedroom window. She's glad to keep him there, for now.)

It's hard to know where to start but Nancy Wheeler is smart and resourceful and starts at the easiest point no one would notice – homework.

He's a month behind, with make-up tests and quizzes as well, and she goes over to his house after school twice a week for all of February and March to help him get back on track. Most of the time they sit side-by-side on the living room sofa where they waited for a faceless beast and spread out her notes on his coffee table, avoiding their glasses of iced tea or the sodas she sometimes brings over.

Their thighs press together as he leans over to snag a page of notes from the pile – chemistry, English, or history, it doesn't matter - and even though they wear their thickest winter jeans and sweaters she feels the heat of him. At night she recalls it and tries to wrap it around herself like a blanket.

Usually Will is there and sometimes Mike, Dustin and Lucas are too, shut up in Will's room doing god-knows-what punctuated by yelling that's sometimes contentious and sometimes celebratory. When Jonathan stands to refill their drinks he always detours to his little brother's door, sticks his head in and usually makes a fart joke, checks on Will while accepting his friends' laughter. There is a tension that ebbs and flows where his shoulders meet his neck, following the pattern of his check-ins.

When he returns to her side he is visibly more relaxed, more inclined to crack jokes about their teachers, or her fastidiousness, or to lean against her as he tries to puzzle out themes of reading units.

By the end of March he no longer jumps away from her when his mom gets home from work.

Occasionally his mom takes Will for his regular appointments and they are left alone. On those afternoons they are very bad at studying; they drift into Jonathan's bedroom instead and he plays music for her while they flip through his collection of music and fashion magazines. ( _The best photographers shoot for Vogue_ , he explains when she laughs, and she likes his cheeks best when he's blushing.)

Words like "Joy Division," "Talking Heads" and "The Smiths" stop being abstract pretensions, become real. She likes more of it than she expected to, and she can tell it pleases him immensely.

At first they perch on the edge of his bed just like the sofa, almost thigh-to-thigh but carefully separate. But "Marquee Moon" is over 45 minutes and her back starts to cramp up and before she knows it, they're laying side by side, staring at the ceiling as he probes for her opinion.

Like this he can't hide how tall he is, can't hunch to make himself smaller. She wants to knock her socked feet into his as she teases him about the record, but they don't line up; hers are halfway up his shin. Even if she points her toes like she learned as a child she can barely tap the top of his foot. So she scoots down until her head is barely on the pillow and does; his feet dwarf hers as well, long and weirdly elegant. There's a growing hole in the toe of his left sock.

He chuckles through his nose, knocks his feet back into hers. When she turns her head to look at him she's confronted with red and black flannel, more even with his shoulder than his face. It's bare inches from her lips and she's suddenly very glad she scooted down because when she looks up his face is turned towards her as well and if his lips were right there she's not sure she'd be able to stop herself from tasting them.

When she glances up he looks like he's thinking the same thing.

She shoots into a sitting position, crosslegged beside him but still fully on the bed, and for an extended moment he's stretched out next to her, long and lean and relaxed and just the barest strip of stomach visible where his old, slightly-too-small shirt can't meet the waistband of his jeans. She likes this angle, her above and him prone below.

Then Side A ends and he sits up, scoots to the edge of the bed to flip the tape. She holds her breath until music fills the room again and hides, she hopes, how her heart is pounding in her chest.

+++

It snows, hard and unexpected, in the first weeks of April just as it seems the cruel, cold winter is behind them. It's happened before, but not like this, not this far south; sometimes up near the lake but no one can remember the last time central Indiana saw a spring blizzard.

On television the weatherman blathers on about Lake-Effect-effect snow and how this puts 1984 on track to be a record-breaking year, and her mother makes a massive pot of soup while Mike radios his friends and makes plans for a snowball fight.

It hasn't snowed all winter and privately she'd been grateful for it. The big, thick flakes remind her of the things floating in _that place_. They hadn't been snowflakes; they'd felt like something between ash and goose down, and they never settled on the ground. They'd left a greasy film on her skin and in her hair after Jonathan pulled her out.

She stares out the window for 10 minutes after she wakes up, terror slowly loosening its grip on her heart, and then shuts her curtains tight.

Steve calls to cancel their date – his car doesn't have snow tires and the roads are a disaster. She tells him it's fine and they make plans for when the roads are clear and safe again. In the kitchen Mike and her mother are arguing about whether or not he's going to Will's. He insists he is; she reminds him his bike is useless in the snow.

"I'll take him," Nancy says. The Byers' house isn't that far of a walk away and the thought of being with Jonathan is reassuring in a way she doesn't want to examine too closely.

"Nancy, don't be ridiculous," her mother replies.

"It's not that far. Dad can pick us up on his way home from work."

"And just pawn you off on Joyce for the day? She's got her hands full enough," her mother scoffs.

"Jonathan's there too," Mike pipes up. "Will said he's gonna referee the fight."

Nancy can't hold back her smirk. She imagines 'referee' is code for 'secret attack target.' Holly is watching her closely, eating pieces of apple in her high chair. Nancy turns away from her baby sister's stare before it can make her, irrationally, blush.

"It's not _that_ bad," she reasons, widening her eyes and turning her most innocent stare on her mother. "It's mostly stopped. For now. And if it starts again, we can walk home or something. Honestly, mom, it's like twenty minutes max."

Mike widens his eyes too, turning the patented Wheeler plea on beside her, and when her mother sighs she knows they've won.

" _Bundle up_ ," she warns them, voice steely. "If I end up at the ER because you two got frostbite – or _worse_ – you're both grounded for the rest of the year. Understand?"

"Yes, Mom!" they chorus and then Mike is tearing up the stairs to get dressed.

"Wear your snow pants!" her mother calls after him. She snickers and turns to get changed as well, but her mother grabs her arm before she can leave the kitchen. "You too. Bundle up."

"Mom—"

" _Nancy_."

She frowns as she pulls on thick wool leggings and a thermal undershirt, then a fuzzy sweater on over that. She hates her snow pants; they're almost too small for her and they're _ridiculous_ , she is almost _seventeen_. She doesn't need them.

She adds thick socks, shoves her feet into the snow boots that have stayed in the back of her closet all winter, and stomps back down stairs. Mike is twisting and turning to get his snow pants to fit right; he's shot up at least an inch and a half in the past year and they _really_ don't fit. She laughs quietly at him as she pulls on the massive puffy coat her parents had bought her the year they'd decided they were going on a ski vacation in Michigan. Turns out none of the Wheelers is particularly good at skiing, though her mother certainly liked to shop for "mountain-ready clothing."

Mike glares at her, then looks down at her legs. She sees his intention and claps her hand over his mouth before he can make a sound.

"Tell her and I won't walk you over anymore. You can just stay home all day."

He harrumphs but keeps his mouth shut as she calls a goodbye down the hallway and they disappear out of the front door.

Lucas is waiting in their driveway and they gain a Dustin along the way. Mike must have radioed to say he had a chaperone.

She lets them walk ahead of her, looking instead at the snow covered yards. Here and there a blooming daffodil pokes out of the white, reminding her she's still on the right side of the universe.

There's a figure at the end of the Byers' driveway. Even though the path is mostly packed dirt and gravel Jonathan is shoveling it. As they approach she realizes his mom's car isn't there, and that he isn't wearing a coat, just a sweater and gloves. Dustin gives a shout and he stops shoveling, looks up and waves. The boys take off running for the house but he's already looking past them to her. She buries her face in her scarf, grateful to hide from his spreading grin.

"Hey," he says as she comes to stand before him. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and his hair is pushed back away from his face as he leans on the snow shovel.

"Hey," she says and nods toward his car, alone in front of the house. "Your mom's not here?"

"She had to work. As if anyone's leaving their house today."

"Well," she shrugs. "We did."

His smile stretches wider, but whatever he's about to say is cut off as the boys come tumbling back over the porch, screaming threats as they spread out in the Byers' front lawn. By the way they're standing she thinks it's Mike and Dustin vs. Will and Lucas. She can see Jonathan in the corner of her eye, watching his brother closely.

Will is more cautious than he used to be, and sometimes she catches him watching the corners of rooms nervously, as if there's something there she can't see. But right now he's flushed with excitement, darting to and fro as he packs snow between his gloved hands and looking for the right angle to bean her brother.

A muscle in Jonathan's jaw works as he watches Will, clenching rhythmically, and the muscle in the side of his neck stands out like a rope. She studiously tries not to think about what it would be like to scrape her teeth over it.

"I can't remember the last time I had a snowball fight," she says instead. It's only when Jonathan's eyes snap over to hers, something mischievous dancing in their brown depths, that she realizes the mistake she just made.

"No," she says, taking a step back, and he doesn't even bother to grab his jacket, just drops the shovel and scoops up a heaping handful of snow. She takes another step back and he steps forward, packing it carefully into a round projectile. "No, no no no no, Jonathan—"

"What?" he asks innocently.

"Do not—Do _not_ —"

She's almost running now but his legs are longer and he maintains the small distance between them. She's got her hands up, repeating "do not" over and over again, when he pulls his arm back and throws. The snowball hits her square in the face.

They both freeze, stunned, and her mouth falls open in outrage. His mouth is open too, like he can't believe he just did that, but his shoulders are shaking with laughter.

"Oh," she says softly. "Oh, you are _dead,_ Byers."

He's already taking off in the opposite direction as she scoops up a handful of snow on her own, and she chases after him as she packs it into a sphere. She gets him in the side of the head and his next snowball smacks her dead in the chest. They duck behind trees and his car, popping up like soldiers in the trenches to launch their projectiles. But all it produces is a stalemate and Nancy likes to win, so she doesn't even think, just scoops up an armful of snow as she gives up her hiding spot and runs towards him and aims for the back of his collar.

She misses and trips and he half-catches her and the next thing she knows she's on her back in the snow and he's on top of her, between her legs, and she can feel his breath on her cheek.

He looks surprised, and his cheeks and nose are red, and his hips are shockingly, shockingly slim. He fits, he fits so well, and for one insane moment she almost lifts up into him, an invitation. She keeps herself still at the last second, the air thick between them.

His hair has fallen into his eyes again and before she can stop herself she reaches up and pushes it aside so she can see him more clearly. Something shifts in his gaze and her gut clenches and inside there is a war over how much she wants him to kiss her.

So she does the only thing she can think of and grabs a fistful of snow from beside her and shoves it down the front of his sweater.

He yelps and rockets away from her, jumping to his feet and shaking out his shirt. She manages to get to her feet and takes off running towards the house -- neutral territory.

He's shouting threats at her but he's laughing, and the boys are cheering him on, and when she pauses to catch her breath at the porch he's not packing another snow ball, just watching her instead. There is an angle in his posture that is wanting and she feels an echoing tilt in her hips. Tries not to think about how her lips are tingling again.

Then the boys all attack Jonathan at once and their side battle is forgotten.

Her leggings are soaked through and so are his sweater and jeans, so he offers her a pair of his sweatpants and lets her change alone in his room first. They make a steaming pot of canned tomato soup and a stack of grilled cheese sandwiches as the party comes in, dropping piles of wet snow gear in the front hall without a care.

They eat their late lunch and watch the boys play Atari.

The quartet falls asleep on the floor watching a movie she's never heard of and she feels her eyes growing heavy, too. She tips her temple onto Jonathan's shoulder, feels him stiffen. Slowly, ever so slowly, he shifts so he's leaning more on the pile of pillows in the corner of the couch and raises his arm to wrap around her shoulders. It knocks her head out of place but she resettles against his chest and firmly tells herself not to think too hard about it. They're friends. She's tired.

She doesn't notice the beat of his heart lulling her to sleep until her father pulls up and knocks on the door.

She tries not to notice the way Jonathan won't quite meet her eye as she gets herself and Mike together to leave. Tries not to notice the way his hands linger at the small of her back when she hugs him goodbye.

+++

Steve tries to help her study for finals, boasting about how he's taken all these classes and tests before, but the truth is he's a B- student at best and Nancy Wheeler _does not_ get B's. So as the weather warms and the days grow longer she spends time with him in the backseat of his car and teaches Jonathan the proper method to climbing in her window.

He's proofreading her English essay with The Pretenders playing in the background (her room, her music) and she's given up on her physics flashcards until she can focus her eyes again when the question slips out.

"What are you doing over summer vacation?"

"Hmm?" he says absently, turning the final page of her essay over. His tongue slips out between his teeth as he scribbles something in pencil and she stares until he looks up and she realizes he's waiting for her to repeat herself.

"Summer vacation. What are you doing for it?"

"Oh." His brow furrows as if he doesn't understand the question. "Uh, working."

"All summer?"

The shape of his forehead changes ever so slightly as his expression shifts from confused to amused. Almost like it smoothes out, lifts. He's been wearing his hair parted to one side more, curling over his forehead in a way that makes him look a little more like the album covers next to his bed. She likes it.

He laughs softly and shakes his head at her.

"Not everyone—it's fine."

"That's so unfair," she protests before she can help herself. His smile turns a little sad and then a little bashful.

"Honestly, it’s not so bad. We manage to get into a decent amount trouble at work, and then in August I think we're gonna go to Cedar Point for a few days. Will loves the roller coasters," he says with a small smile.

"But still, it's supposed to be a _vacation_."

"Not for everyone," he says softly. "This is my college money, you know? Last summer it wasn't but now-- It's easier now with the… settlement."

The word hangs between them, heavy and rotten, for a long moment. She knew the government had done something to compensate the Byers after they had brought Will back from the Upside Down. She knew they paid to fix their house, for sure, and suspected there had been something more, too, since Jonathan seemed to be home a lot more since November. But she had thought that had to do with Will.

She wonders if Barb's parents got a settlement. She eats dinner with them twice a month, her and Steve, praising her baked ziti and not saying anything about the strain in their faces.

The official story is Barb ran away. No one gives out settlements for a runaway.

For the last four summers she and Barb and their mothers spent a long weekend together in Indianapolis. They stayed in fancy hotel rooms and got pedicures and went to high tea. She and Barb stayed up all night ordering room service and watching movies.

Something in her mouth goes to ash thinking about Barb's face in the dark, lit only by the TV screen, and their argument about whether Nancy would have a boyfriend by winter break. They'd made a bet.

"You okay?"

Jonathan lays a hand gently on her shoulder, as if a more solid touch would break her. His palm is warm, so warm, it winds its way through her veins and into the cold place in the middle of her chest where her grief is locked away. She blinks the tears out of her eyes and forces the grief away.

"Do you know where you want to go?"

"Huh?" His expression says he knows she's hiding something but he's inclined to let her get away with it.

"To college."

"Oh, uh." He runs his hand over his mouth in the way he only does when he's shy or scare. Drops her gaze and mumbles something through his fingers she can't make out.

"What's that?" She nudges his elbow with hers.

"NYU," he says a little clearer.

"It's a great school," she says with a smile and he grins back, still shy. She hasn't seen this particular shy grin in months, she realizes.

"And expensive. And hard to get into." He shakes off their conversation, scoots across the bed so he's closer to her, his left shoulder behind her right and his torso just barely cupping her back. He moves her essay into the smaller space between their thighs.

If she leaned back he would hold her up, keep her steady. Maybe even wrap his left arm around her waist, rest his scarred palm on her hip. She is so tempted to try. Instead, he keeps his left hand behind her to brace himself and points at his first mark, halfway down the first page.

"Want me to take you through it?" he asks. She nods but she's looking at his forearm. He's still wearing his flannels but they're rolled up to the elbow now. His forearm looks strong and finely muscled, covered with a light dusting of blonde hair. She imagines what it would look like with a summer tan.

+++

Summer comes and he disappears, again.

Without the homework and classes she doesn't have as many reasons to talk to him, or invite him into her bedroom or herself into his. And it turns out he was serious about how much he'd be working. It’s not until Mike convinces her to chaperone the party's third trip to see Ghostbusters that she realizes it's because he's agreed to work late shifts at the Hawk.

"You're missing out on all the bonfires and underage drinking," she teases as he prints six tickets and counts out her change. The boys head over to concessions; her mom gave Mike a five dollar bill.

"Who's to say there's no underage drinking going on here?" he asks, shaking the soda cup next to him at her before passing her a handful of dollar bills and quarters. "Anyway, no one invites me to bonfires."

"You have to talk to people to get invited to bonfires."

"I talk to you."

"And I'd invite you to bonfires."

A genuine smile flits across his face before he hides it behind a scoff.

"Oh yeah, I'd love to bask in the firelight while Tommy and Carol make out and Steve challenges everyone to beer shotgunning contests," he mumbles and she glares.

"It's not like that. He doesn't hang out with Tommy and Carol anymore," she says hotly, wondering why she suddenly feels like she's been caught at something. "And anyway, we make s'mores. You're missing out on _s'mores_. I make _the best_ s'mores, and you're not gonna get _any_ of them."

Something flashes across his face, like he's imagining taking sticky sandwiches of gooey marshmallow and melted chocolate from her and all of a sudden she's imagining that too, imagining him licking the chocolate off his fingertips and hers, imagining her kissing away a smear of marshmallow in the corner of his mouth.

They look away from each other at the same time. He shifts in his swivel chair and she clears her throat. Will comes running over before either of them can speak.

"Hey Jonathan," he says, slightly breathless. "Can I get Goobers?"

"Sure, bud. Tell Jenny they're on me." He grins at his little brother and something catches behind her ribs.

"You're the best," Will grins and runs away again. Jonathan offers the stack of tickets to Nancy and she takes them.

"Enjoy the movie," he says.

She sees him again two weeks later, this time with Steve's arm around her shoulders. As many times as the three of them have chatted in the hallways of Hawkins High they really haven't ever hung out together, or even run into each other out of school, and she feels desperately awkward as Jonathan makes small talk and Steve pays and refuses to loosen his grip on her even a little bit. She wants to step away, to put a respectful distance between them, but she's not sure why. Who is she trying to respect?

If it bothers Jonathan it doesn’t show on his face. She thinks she might see something roiling behind his eyes, but it could be her imagination.

In the back row of the theater she tilts her head to one side and gives Steve access to her neck, threading her hands through his hair.

"I love you," he murmurs against her skin. He's said it a handful of times now and each time it sends a spike of adrenaline straight to her stomach. She wants to run, to bolt, and she wants to believe him, be selfish, take his love and keep it so she knows she's worth _something_.

The first time he said it she replied before she could even think, echoing his words out of instinct. She's always been good at playing her part.

Now she stays silent, but she tells herself it's because they're in a theater, she doesn’t want to draw attention. Instead she threads her fingers through his hair, thinks about what it would feel like without the hairspray, if the strands were dirty blonde and not chestnut brown, and he smelled like two-in-one shampoo-conditioner instead of Faberge.

After the movie Steve turns for the bathroom and she wanders out into the lobby. Jonathan is still in the ticket booth, feet up on the counter and nose buried in a book. As she gets closer she can make out the cover – "Breakfast of Champions."

"Still on that Vonnegut kick?" she asks and he looks up, makes a face.

"'Slaughterhouse Five' is _good_ , Nance, you should read it."

"I will. When it's assigned in English next year."

He rolls his eyes, dog-ears his page and puts his feet back down on the ground. For a moment neither of them can think of what to say. 

"So what's coming up next?" she asks, gesturing to the movie times behind him. He shrugs with one shoulder. 

"Summer lull; all the movies are crap. I think we get Revenge of the Nerds next week, though, and that looks alright."

"Wanna see it with me?" The question is past her lips before she can think. His eyebrows rise in surprise.

"You want to see Revenge of the Nerds?"

"I want to hang out with you. It's been ages. You didn't even come watch fireworks on the Fourth."

She can't tear her eyes from his Adams apple as he swallows hard.

"Yeah, sure," he says finally. "I work days on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. We can go when I'm off."

"Deal. And you're buying," she says, leaning towards him. He smirks back. They both know he gets his tickets for free.

"Only if you provide the underage drinking."

" _Definitely_ deal," she laughs.

"You ready Nance?"

Steve's voice breaks whatever spell was weaving between them and she turns around, sees him waiting in the middle of the lobby. She shoots Jonathan one last grin.

"Call me, okay?" she says. He nods and waves at Steve as they walk out the door. Steve waves back, but Nancy doesn't miss how tight he pulls her to his side.

Jonathan keeps his promise, gets their tickets and popcorn, and Nancy sneaks in a small bottle of rum to dump into their Coke, and in the dark of the theater she thinks about threading her hands through his hair and holding his mouth to her neck and whispering his name in the dark, and sits on her hands to keep herself from making it real.

+++

The Wheelers spend a week in mid-August visiting her mother's sister at her lake house on the Illinois-Wisconsin border. Her mother suggests she invite Steve for part of it, but Nancy doesn't really want to, and anyway it overlaps with his family's annual two-week trip to their lake house in Michigan. How apt; looking down from above they'll be almost parallel but in reality they're miles and miles apart.

Steve keeps telling her he loves her and she keeps saying it back, but with no classes and no basketball team and no jobs there are a lot of hours to fill together. She thinks a little time away from him might be nice. Maybe she'll miss him.

When they get back to Hawkins Steve is still in Michigan and the Byers are in Cedar Point and Nancy suddenly feels very alone.

She calls Allie, calls Stacey, and organizes a sleepover to remind herself she still has friends, but all it really does is make her miss Barb more. They gossip about boys and summer flings and they pry – oh how they pry – in to Steve and her, what he's like in bed, how he kisses, what kind of attention he showers on her. It makes her feel guilty that she hasn't really thought of him in a week. How she spent her family vacation thinking about what path she and Jonathan would take around the lake for him to get the best pictures and wishing she could talk to Barb about all these confusing, conflicting feelings.

Instead she tells Aliie and Stacey about the gold earrings Steve gave her for her birthday and doesn’t mention she liked the afternoon shooting cans with a shotgun in Jonathan's back yard more.

He gave her a guide to different kinds of predators and how to trap them. Steve doesn't understand why she keeps it on her bedside table.

She's upstairs in her room reviewing the fall class schedule Hawkins High mailed home when she hears Will's voice in her foyer. Before she can think she's scrambling down the stairs.

Jonathan's halfway out the door when she calls his name.

"Hey," he says with a grin.

"Hey." She's slightly out of breath when she skids to a stop in front of him. She's wearing a soft, thin-strapped sundress and he's in a t-shirt and shorts, of all things, and their eyes explore the angles of their limbs and the exposed skin. He's got freckles on his arms along with a light tan and his legs are hairier than she ever imagined. She didn't even think he owned shorts.

"Wanna go see a movie?" he blurts out. She smiles up at him and nods.

"The Hawk has Purple Rain."

He groans, but she knows that groan; it means he's gonna complain the whole time but he'll still agree to see her _stupid girly movie_. 

She shouts over her shoulder at her mom that she's leaving with Jonathan and doesn't wait for a response, shoves her feet into the sandals by the door and scoops her purse up from the foot of the stairs before shoving him out onto her porch and closing the door behind them. His hair glints in the sun, streaked with lighter blonde thanks to summer, and he's laughing at her.

"If I actually hear her tell me to be home for dinner then I have to be," she explains, falling into step beside him.

August in Indiana is hot and humid, and she's grateful when he cranks the AC up once he turns on the car. Even if it blows hot air at first, it's better than the wet stillness outside.

"How was Cedar Point?" she asks as he follows the cul-de-sac back out onto the main road.

"Fun. Will puked, like, five times."

Sometimes she's shocked by how much of a _boy_ he is. "Gross."

"His record's seven."

"You keep _track_?"

"Like you wouldn't if it was you and Mike."

She's quiet for a moment. "OK. You're right."

"Of course I am," he chuckles and his hand lets go of the gear shift, gets halfway to her knee before stopping and quickly returning to the wheel. As if he suddenly remembered he's not supposed to touch.

She tries not to examine how disappointed she feels.

They fall quiet, just his mix tape playing in the background and she recognizes this song, this band. "A Forest." The Cure. He'd be so proud of her.

"You got a tan," she murmurs instead. He grins at the road in front of them, maneuvers his tank of a car towards the theater's parking lot.

"Mom made me go out in the sun for four days. Are you proud of me?"

"Very." She puts on a serious tone but she's grinning at him as he pulls into a space and shuts off the engine.

He turns and looks at her and she feels something crackle between them. Slowly he reaches out and touches the ends of her hair, now hovering an inch above her shoulder.

"You cut your hair," he says softly, taking a few strands between his thumb and forefinger and examining them. When he meets her eyes again she has to fight not to lick her lips. "It looks good."

"Thanks," she whispers.

He moves his hand away and she thinks it's over but he surprises her, runs his index finger down her nose instead and bops it lightly on the tip. A shiver runs through her entire body and she feels gooseflesh break out on her arms.

"You got a sunburn, too," he notes. She knows she did, knows the pink flares out over her cheeks and she wants him to touch that too, to cup her face and draw her close and press his lips to hers. She wants to know what he tastes like.

She thinks he wants to know what she tastes like, too.

Instead he pulls his keys out of the ignition, opens his door, breaks the spell.

After the movie they walk down Main Street to Irma's Café as the sun sets, and she sings "When Doves Cry" at him off-key while he groans and tries to thread the needle between being cool and aloof and admitting he likes both Prince _and_ the movie, and when she dances around him in a circle he grabs her arm to stop her from tripping him, or herself, or both of them. His hand slides down her arm until the tips of his fingers thread through hers. She shifts a little closer to his side, thinking about that first night at Benny's diner when she made him meet her for coffee.

"Oh _hey_ , Princess."

Carol's voice is like a bucket of ice water and they pull up short, spring apart as the smirking redhead approaches on the other half of the sidewalk. She's tucked into Tommy's side as usual and he's smirking at them too.

"Fancy seeing you here, Perv," he says, nodding at Jonathan who just rolls his eyes.

"I didn't know you had another boyfriend, _Nance_ ," Carol adds. Nancy clenches her jaw, wanting to snap back but unable to find the words. Jonathan's breath moves her hair as he leans toward her ear.

"Let's just go," he whispers. She nods.

"We'll be sure to tell Steve you say hi, Byers," Tommy calls as they start walking again. They're still headed towards Irma's but suddenly she's not hungry. Jonathan looks about the same.

"I'll take you home," he murmurs, and turns to take the long way back to the parking lot. She follows, eyes to the ground, and tries to ignore the way her fingers still tingle from his touch.

He drives her home in silence and when he pulls up in front of her house it's full dark. She looks at him, the shadows the streetlights cast on his face, and clasps her hands together to keep from reaching out to him.

"You should ignore them," she says, her voice sounding too loud in the quiet summer night. "We should both ignore them."

"Yeah. Sure."

"They're assholes, and they're just angry and jealous that Steve dropped them for me," she points out. He nods, but it seems perfunctory.

"Plus," she can't seem to stop talking, "it's not like we're doing anything wrong. We're _friends_."

"Yeah," he says again but there's a bitter undertone to it. "Friends."

"Jonathan—"

"It's fine, Nancy. I'm fine."

He doesn't use her nickname and it makes her stomach sink. She unbuckles her seatbelt.

"I'll see you soon?" It's the first time since January that's been a question and not a fact.

"Yeah," he says, and there is forced nonchalance in his voice. "School starts in, like, a week."

He's right. Summer's almost over. She feels a precipice, like things are about to change and she's not going to have a say in it.

She opens his passenger door, climbs halfway out.

"Yeah," she agrees because she doesn't know what else to say.

They don't say goodbye. He watches her through the passenger window until she's on her porch and waves, and then he pulls away.

+++

School starts and Steve is _everywhere_.

She doesn't know what Tommy and Carol told him, or if they told him anything at all, but when he gets back from Michigan he is different. Defensive. A little angry and suddenly very vigilant.

He picks her up in the morning, walks her to her locker. Sits next to her in study hall. Steers her to the cafeteria at lunch to make sure she's at his table. It's as if he doesn't want to let her out of his sight.

He pops up at her locker after some of her classes and it takes her almost a month to realize it's only after the classes she has with Jonathan.

Their brothers are spending less time at each other's houses and more time at the arcade, and she barely gets to talk to him anymore except for at school.

He's gone back to trying to be a shadow again, keeping his head down and his shoulders hunched, but she sees the way he's started parting his hair and the new pairs of jeans that are slimmer, tighter and how his t-shirts stretch tight over his shoulders now. His skin has cleared up and his cheekbones catch the light in the hallway and she swears even the dimple in his chin has become more prominent.

She sees other girls noticing too. There's a girl with long blonde hair in their biology class who wears dark jeans and Siouxie Sioux t-shirts who keeps trying to talk to him, and Nancy feels something hot and angry in her chest every time. She doesn't want to name that thing, is afraid of what she'll find.

So she makes a point to catch him on the way out of every classroom door, to tease him about music and books and movies, and Steve sneaks up behind her and scoops her up and kisses her silent and Jonathan just keeps walking.

She hates it, wants to tell him to stop, but if she does that's going to lead to a whole other conversation she's not ready to have.

Instead of studying with Jonathan she goes to Steve's basketball practices, and shifts around their dinners with Barb's parents to accommodate his schedule. She agrees to his date nights and movie choices and if she pushes back he becomes petulant, childlike. He's quicker to anger, too – not to rage but to snap and to needle her, like he's holding something against her that she doesn't know about.

She tries not to be unfair. Steve is steady, and he's worked hard to be a better person and he cares about her and he loves her, she knows he loves her – he tells her he loves her every morning when they get to school and every evening when he drops her off in front of her house, and she says it back because that's what good girlfriends do, and Nancy Wheeler is a good girlfriend. She is happy with Steve, and she doesn't dream about anyone else.

She _doesn't_.

Summer cools and the leaves start to change and she starts snapping back at him, too. Their arguments go from occasional to constant, from silly to petty to personal. She feels edgy and tense, and she can't put her finger on why. She wants to ask Jonathan about it but when she calls his house he's busy and Ms. Byers apologizes on his behalf. Nancy thinks she sounds edgy too.

It's not until Mike brings it up that she realizes it's been almost a year.

"Can you believe it?" he says one night as they're watching TV and their father is snoring in his Lay-Z-Boy. "It feels like forever, and like yesterday."

It rips something open deep inside her, something she thought she had locked away, and the grief and the guilt come roaring back. She sounds slightly breathless when she replies.

"No," she says. "I can't believe it at all."

+++

When Steve says he might stay in Hawkins and work for his father, something inside her feels like it's dying. She clamps it down, tries to lock it away. Hopes it doesn't show on her face.

She admonishes him and kisses him instead, and lets the new kid with the loud car end the conversation for her.

But if there was ever a lock inside of her, it's broken. Mike broke it, with his simple observation. Mrs. Holland shattered it, with news of their private investigator. And god knows what kind of alcohol mixed with sickly sweet fruit punch sets the thing she was keeping locked up free.

Her blouse is ruined. Jonathan's arms are strong, and steady. His chest is hard and warm. His neck smells like sweat and boy.

She's proud of herself for not puking in his car.

How he gets her up the stairs without waking her parents, she will never know. He tucks her into bed so gently, takes off her shoes, pulls up the covers. _Thank you_ , she wants to say. _I miss you. I want you. Get in here with me_.

"Jonathan," is what she says, and grabs his arm. He freezes, and there are so many emotions on his face she is furious for the way the alcohol is making her vision blur.

 _Kiss me_ , she wants to say. _Please kiss me._

She falls asleep instead, and when she wakes up it all feels like a dream. She doesn't know it's real until Steve spits her words back in her face behind the gym.

"Tell me," he says.

"Tell you what?" She pretends not to know what he's asking.

"That you love me!"

She has said it so many times already, but now the words won't come. Her head hurts and she's tired and her chest feels like it's caving in and all she can see behind her eyes is Jonathan's face, the way he looked down at her the night before with so much longing.

"I think _you're_ bullshit," Steve says, storming off, and she can't help but agree.

The churning in her stomach only worsens when Jonathan lies for Steve, tries to smooth things over for him. She wants to shake him and scream at him, tell him to stop being such a coward and take what he wants. She thinks – she _hopes_ – he wants her.

That's dangerous territory so she talks about the way their lives shattered together a year ago and never got put back together quite right. That shouldn't be safer ground, but at least it's a topic they can _do_ something about, that they can trap, or fight, or kill. It's tangible, not like all these messy emotions.

Anger is Nancy's least messy emotion. She grabs onto it and holds tight. It only takes a minute for her to come up with a plan.

And Jonathan, he doesn't hesitate when she asks him to join it. Just clears their lunches off the hood of his car and pulls out his keys.

Those messy emotions flare up again and she shoves them away before he catches them on her face, too.

+++

In a motel room in central Illinois they lay their scars side by side and lie to each other. He never disappeared, not really, and when he did it wasn't because of his brother. She knows that. She knows he knows she knows that.

They have to stop at the motel because they have to find Murray Bauman, and he's not an easy guy to find. They take the long way around, from Hawkins to Chicago and then to Peoria before they finally get the right address in Sesser.

It feels like a metaphor for the two of them, except they seem to keep circling and circling with no final destination in sight.

The space between their beds is a chasm and their words open it wider. She sleeps with her back to him and spends the night dreaming of him at her side, warm and soft and curled around her. She dreams of his hands creeping under her nightshirt and of his ungodly ugly pajama pants on the floor and his breath hot on the shell of her ear and his hips, even slimmer than they were in April, cradled by her thighs.

In the morning she can barely look at him, throws herself into her mission and her upcoming meeting. She has a purpose, and that purpose is so much more important than these _stupid_ _messy emotions._

Murray is, in turns, shocked, skeptical, curious, wary, delighted, and fucking terrified. Her frustration at his need to pause after they've told the tale bubbles over, but at the same time she envies his shaker of ice and vodka. She thinks she could use a drink.

She feels oddly depleted; the retelling was nearly as exhausting as living it the first time. She has no idea how long they've been talking – they're in some sort of basement with half-windows mostly covered by shelves and furniture and televisions. The outside world is now an abstract concept.

Maybe he senses it or maybe he just feels the same but she feels the air move just before Jonathan slides up next to her and skims his hand over the small of her back. She lets out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"Euuughshh!" Murray groans and grimaces through a gulp of vodka, then pauses. "That's it."

"What?" Jonathan mutters, sounding frustrated and impatient, and utterly inexplicably she wants to hug him.

+++

Murray sends them out to pick up lunch while he sets up the audio editing equipment and digs out his rolodex.

"Next right," she says, scanning the directions Murray scribbled, and then, "Do you think it's going to work?"

"What?"

"The tape. Sending it out. Watering it down."

He glances at her, then goes back to scanning the unfamiliar streets. "I don't know. It… it can't hurt, can it?"

"What if one of his contacts goes to the government? Tells the lab?" The thought hadn't occurred to her but now she feels a cold dampness on the back of her neck.

He chuckles and she watches his throat as he swallows.

"I don't think reporters do that. Protect your sources and all that."

"What do you know about reporters anyway? And I think it's the second left up here."

"I left that Hunter Thompson book at your house, you haven't read it?"

She gives him a look and draws another laugh from him.

"You should," he sighs with a grin, like he'll never give up even if it gets him nowhere. "It's not just about journalism. There's a _lot_ of drugs, too."

Something warm slides down her spine.

+++

They bring back half a dozen sandwiches and she types up letters as Jonathan and Murray edit the tape and start making copies. She assembles packages and makes him write the address labels even though she has better handwriting.

She feels righteous and strong and like she did last fall, like she was taking this shitty, chaotic, _insane_ thing by the horns and bending it to her will. When she toasts to taking down the man, she means it. It sounds silly, but the sentiment is real.

Then Murray sets his sights on them and it all crashes down.

They know each other too well. She can speak for him, call his dad an asshole like he refuses to (even though he hates him, oh god does he hate him), but that means he can speak for her too, and he will, he does. He names the thing between them and the reason it stays unspoken all in one word and Murray knows he's got her number.

What he says to her sounds far, _far_ too much like what Jonathan yelled at her in the woods last fall. For a moment, through the buzz of the vodka, she can see his face, trying to hide the hurt in his eyes behind his bangs. And then it's Murray again, smirking and asking how he did.

She chances a glance at Jonathan and he's studiously looking down at his knees. She can't read his expression.

Murray's challenge hangs in the air like half-deflated helium balloons. He finds words first.

"I'll, uh, I'll get our bags. From the car."

She helps him pull out the sofa and make up the bed and it's like turning magnets around the wrong way. He shifts away every time she draws near, and every time he does the urge to chase after him grows stronger. She wants to stamp her feet and yell at him that he's being ridiculous but her tongue stays stuck tight to the roof her mouth.

When they stand at the foot of the bed he is haloed by Murray's evidence board and somehow still looks radiant. Tired, and wary, and beautiful.

"Um. Goodnight?" he tries. She gives him a small smile and chews her thumb.

"Yeah. Yeah, goodnight."

It's only after she's changed into her nightgown and crawled under the mustard yellow blanket that she realizes she's performed the dictionary definition of a retreat.

When they meet in the hallway her feet refuse to move past the edge of the rug. His hair is slightly mussed, maybe from the pillow or a rake of his hands, and his thermal shirt clings to the contours of his body in a way she's not expecting. Her mouth babbles on, making easy excuses, but her eyes rake over the curve of his biceps and the surprising definition of his chest. When he crosses his arms and blocks her view she wonders if he can feel it.

The run out of words and the silence stretches. _Why won't you kiss me_ , she wonders.

"So, um, goodnight?" she hears herself say, and there's something rueful on his face as he recognizes the echo.

"Yeah," he dutifully repeats. "Yeah, uh, goodnight."

Then he almost walks into a wall.

She can't lay down. Her skin is thrumming, crawling, and she tucks her legs beneath her and holds the pillow tight to her lap to keep herself from moving.

 _Why won't you kiss me?_ She chews her thumbnail and clenches her jaw. _I want you to kiss me._

This time when she finds herself at her door, he's on the other side. His eyes search her face and she sees him take a breath like he's steeling himself for something.

 _Kiss me_ , she thinks. _Kiss me, kiss me,_ please _kiss me._

He does.

+++

She learns.

She learns his mouth is as soft and as hot as she imagined. That his hair is silky and free of product but slightly damp with sweat at the nape of his neck.

She learns his hands can span her cheek and still have room for his fingers to tangle in her hair. That his arms are strong and when he pulls her against his chest it's not just that strength that steals her breath.

She learns his chest is broad and his waist is narrow, and that there's a subtle but visible pair of lines at his hips, and that she wants to put her teeth there.

She learns he's ticklish on the inside of his knees and soft inner part of his thighs. That he knows how to squirm in a way that draws her nearer, underneath him, and that his arms don't shake when he braces himself above her.

His hips still fit in the cradle of her thighs in the most shocking way, and when he settles there she never wants him to be anywhere else ever again.

She learns her fingers slide easily into the long dip of his spine. That his muscles roll like ocean waves as he moves inside her. That scraping her teeth over his throat feels as good as in her fantasies and that he shudders every time she rakes her short nails down his back.

She learns his teeth on her shoulder sends sparks straight to her core and that he somehow knows the right moment to slip his hand between them and where to touch to send her into spasms and shouts.

She thinks he's saved up all his curses for this. She's always noticed how little he curses, even when they're alone without younger siblings or eavesdropping parents. Has wondered why. But now he breathes curses into her skin, _oh shit_ and _fuck_ and _oh fuck Nancy_ , and she thinks maybe he was just waiting for the right time. For the right swell of emotion to tear his manners away from him.

He pants hosannas into the crook of her neck and she clutches him against her and tangles her fingers in his damp hair and breathes his name into his ear.

She thinks she'd like to strip him down to his core and keep that to herself forever.

+++

He has an outie.

He's stretched out on his back and she's propped up on her elbow, using her index finger to swirl circles around the nub of skin and gristle. The blanket is down around their waists but she doesn't feel self-conscious. And not just because his eyes are closed.

She thinks of the first time he made her listen to "Marquee Moon" and how she saw him like this then, just under a lot more layers of clothing and fear. Maybe that's why she's not embarrassed; for the first time in a long time she feels free.

"That feels weird," he murmurs.

She laughs, dips her head and presses a kiss to his shoulder, but she doesn’t stop running her fingers over his stomach.

"I've never met anyone with an outie before," she shrugs.

"Well, what do you have?" He catches her hand, stops her movement by threading their fingers together. Not just the tips; all the way this time.

She leans back so he can see her stomach. "An innie, like a normal person."

"Ugh, who wants to be normal," he scoffs but he's reaching for her. He pokes a finger into her bellybutton and she flinches. It tickles. "Ooh, why is yours so deep?!"

"It's _not_ deep, it's just a regular bellybutton," she laughs and bats his hand away. He uses it as an opportunity to pull her down and settle her against his chest. She pulls the blanket up over them both, feeling the chill of the underground room.

"I don't want to go back," she says into the silence. He doesn't respond but she feels his chin move as he looks down at her. "I mean, I do. Or, I don't want to stay here. But when we go back it's all going to have to be normal again. I don't… I don't want to go back to before."

"You don't have to." The way he says it is almost offhand, like how he told her he feels the same inescapable weight in his life. She'd wondered how he could be so casual about something so awful.

"What do you mean?"

"Going back to _before_ , or whatever, it's a choice. It's always been a choice. You've always acted like you have no say in your own life, but you do. You just have to choose."

"That sounds like an ultimatum," she says warily and feels him shake his head.

"No, that's not what I meant, I mean—" His sigh ruffles her hair. "Like, Will, right? He's not the same, and he's not all right, but he refuses to give into it. He's with his friends all the time, and he's still in AV Club, and he can still talk me into letting him trick or treat on his own even though he knows it'll give Mom a panic attack. And Mom… she chooses to stay scared. Maybe she can't help it, but it's a choice too."

Nancy is quiet but she shifts closer as he starts to trace patters on her shoulder with the arm he's got around her.

"If you don't want to go back to before," he murmurs, "then don't."

He doesn't give her a chance to reply before he shifts them, reaching up to shut off the lamp on the low night table behind them and curling around her back. She settles into his embrace and clutches his forearms close to her chest. Feels him press a kiss to her jaw as her eyes flutter shut.

"Sleep, Nance," he says. And she does.

+++ 

She wakes up first. During the night they've shifted, him onto his stomach and her onto her back, but he's still got one arm flung over her waist. She lays there, tracing the contours of his shoulder blades in the early morning light and thinking about Hawkins.

She dreamed about going home. About Steve at her bedroom window with a bat full of nails in one hand and a newspaper with Barb's name on the front page in the other. About Mike, hiding under her bed with his walkie-talkie, calling out for Eleven, listening for the Demogorgon. About Jonathan in the dark room, perfected in the red light, leaning in to brush his lips against hers once, twice, three times before stepping back to explain he was brightening, and enlarging. Exposing the next threat.

She knows he's right; he was right last year in the forest and he was right last night in her arms and that means Murray is right, too, which is supremely irritating. She's been scared. And didn't she have the right to be? What other sixteen year old has argued with their best friend only to have them disappear from the face of the earth and meet a horrible end in an alternate dimension?

The boy right beside her, the back of her mind whispers, and even though it's not quite the same she knows it's parallel. _Go home, Barb_ , she said and Barb disappeared forever. _Sure, I can cover your shift_ , he said, and a monster stole his little brother.

If this works, if this crazy plan she hatched on the hood of his car works, nothing's going to go back to how it was before. And wasn't that the point?

Through the ceiling she hears the shuffling of feet and then the groan of pipes as the shower turns on.

She slides a finger over Jonathan's shoulder blade and to his spine. He shifts a little in his sleep, like it tickles, and mumbles into the pillow. She leans down and lets her mouth follow in her hand's path, dropping kisses in a neat line from the back of his neck to where the sheet blocks the rest of her way at his hips. He shifts and then rolls so he's facing her. His eyes are half-closed and there's a red line on his cheek from a fold in the pillow and his hair is an absolute riot. Before he can say anything she swoops in and presses a kiss to his lips.

She can taste how sleepy he is, feel it in how languidly he moves his mouth against hers, how limp his arm is even as he pulls her closer to him. In the way he takes a deep breath in through his nose and exhales against her cheek, never separating from her.

When she finally pulls back he's somehow rolled onto his back and she is sprawled across his chest and he is blinking up at her like he's not sure if he's awake or not.

"Murray's awake," she says.

He groans and scrubs a hand over his face, trying to blink the sleep from his eyes. Covers his mouth as he yawns, long and deep.

"What time is it?"

"I don't know," she admits. "My watch is over there. You're warm."

He smirks and taps his fingers against her lower back and she never wants to get out of this bed.

"You ready?" he asks. She furrows her brow, unsure of what he means, and he clarifies. "To go back?"

"I'm ready to go home," she says, soft and firm. "Not back."

His smile is wide, and real.

+++

Later she will think that all her worries, all her fears, were utterly ridiculous. That her personal melodrama could not have meant less. The first hint of that she gets is when they walk into Jonathan's house and it is covered in a maze of taped together drawings and panic settles over every line of his body and sits on her chest until she can't draw a breath.

Later she will realize that they never went back; that it was never an option. Watching black smoke pour from a 13-year-old boy's mouth and fly out of a cabin and dissipate through the dark woods, she will accept that her life is never not going to be like this, and that there is only one person she can imagine keeping her sane and steady through it. He is keening at his brother's side, clutching at the boy and his mother, sobbing apologies into their shoulders.

Later she will shed the skin that became too small in a year of pretending and wanting, let it give birth to a new Nancy, who wants and takes and gets, who rises instead of retreats. Who has been trying to get out for too long now.

Later she will fall into bed next to Jonathan, exhausted and tender and scared, and when he reaches for her she will go easily, curl up into all the dark places inside him and bring them light; let him illuminate her hidden corners as well.

Now they tuck the vodka and soda into their overnight bags, turn on his car, navigate back to the highway. His hand leaves the wheel, hits play on his tape deck, and settles on her knee without hesitation. She places her hand on top of it, curls her fingers around his to hold in place.

She lets her eyes travel the column of his neck, thinks about what it would be like to place a kiss there. She leans over, and does.

**Author's Note:**

> Jesus christ. I made a joke on tumblr about needing 10K words on how Nancy notices Jonathan filling out and getting hot between Seasons 1 and 2. Then I wrote 12K+ words of exactly that. 
> 
> This is pure self-indulgence. I hope you enjoyed.
> 
> (for the record, the title is cribbed from a Spoon song of the same name.)


End file.
